


Like Fine Print, Hard To Read

by torakowalski



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, Post Fix-It, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 03:49:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Take your clothes off,” Phil orders and Clint’s stomach rolls over in a fun, squirmy way.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“All of them?” he asks, already dropping his hands to his belt.</i>
</p><p><i>Phil just looks at him.  It’s his </i>did I fucking stutter?<i> look, which Clint secretly finds crazily hot.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Fine Print, Hard To Read

**Author's Note:**

> This was genuinely just meant to be straight up porn. Then it got overtaken by pheels. Oops? I’m pretty hopeful it’ll still count for the kink-bingo ‘obedience’ square though.
> 
> Warning for reference to past injury. Movie spoilers.

Once everyone else has filed off to bed or their labs or to commune with thunder clouds, Phil says, “Barton,” with a familiar edge to his voice that makes Clint stop in his tracks, turn around.

“Sir?” Clint asks and watches Phil watch him. They’re ten paces apart, the glow from Tony’s 3D HD Double-D TV the only thing lighting the room. Clint had been heading to bed; he doesn’t think he is anymore.

“Do you have any plans for the rest of the night?” Phil asks and that’s different, the asking. It _has_ been a long time though since Phil looked at Clint in that way and spoke in just that tone of voice though. 

There were no Avengers the last time they did this and Clint had never been handed blood-stained cards by a grim-faced Captain America and told that Phil was dead.

“No, sir. No plans.” Clint folds his hands together behind his back, his best approximation of parade rest. He was never a soldier but Phil was and it’s always been easy to read what he likes. At least, it’s been easy for Clint, who was amazed the first time he realised that most other people think Phil’s some kind of closed off robot.

Phil nods slowly, eyes still locked on Clint. Clint tips his head back and meets him stare for stare.

“My room, Agent,” he tells Clint firmly, “ten minutes.”

“Sir,” Clint agrees and watches as Phil turns around and leaves the living room without a backward glance. 

Clint breathes out hard as soon as he’s alone, curling his fingers around the back of the couch until his knuckles go white. He’s not relieved, he’s _not_. Relieved implies that this matters and Clint doesn’t like when things matter.

***

Phil’s room at Stark Tower isn’t really his. Or, more accurately, _they_ all treat it like it’s his, but now that he’s back on active duty, Phil doesn’t actually stay there much of the time. Clint suspects it has to do with that one time when Phil had to have a conversation with Captain America while uncaffeinated and wearing sweatpants, but he’s never actually asked.

Phil’s using his room tonight though. He’s sitting on the bed when Clint knocks but he’s standing by the time Clint closes the door and flips the lock.

Clint lowers his head even though that isn’t usually what Phil wants and asks the floor, “Where do you want me, sir?”

“Head up, shoulders straight, Barton,” Phil says immediately and Clint tamps down on a grin while he obeys, pleased that that hasn’t changed. Phil rolls his eyes. “Don’t do that again.”

“Sorry, sir,” Clint says and maybe doesn’t manage to stop a little bit of his smile sneaking through into his eyes.

“Take your clothes off,” Phil orders and Clint’s stomach rolls over in a fun, squirmy way.

“All of them?” he asks, already dropping his hands to his belt.

Phil just looks at him. It’s his _did I fucking stutter?_ look, which Clint secretly finds crazily hot.

Or, okay, maybe not so secretly.

He strips down quickly and efficiently because Phil didn’t tell him to make a show of it then puts himself back at ease.

Phil looks down at the clothes dropped into a haphazard pile behind Clint and raises his eyebrows. “Fold your clothes, Agent.”

“Oh, come on,” Clint starts then stops himself. “Yes, sir.” He squats down to sort out the clothes, not sure if he’s annoyed or turned on but his dick’s twitching so it clearly doesn’t mind.

“Better,” Phil tells him when Clint’s laundry is sitting in a carefully folded pile on Phil’s desk chair and Clint is back in front of Phil, buckass nude and all the way hard.

Phil glances down at his dick and then away, tiny hint of a self-satisfied smirk touching the corners of his mouth. Asshole.

“You look good,” Phil says, “have you been working out?”

Clint almost laughs but it’s not a pickup line; it’s a question. “Yes, sir. Every day.” _Because you put me on a team with a god and a super solider and I don’t like running behind like someone’s kid brother_ , he doesn’t say but he thinks Phil knows that anyway.

“Good boy,” Phil says, because, yeah, asshole. 

Clint’s dick twitches again and he closes his eyes for a second.

“Let me see,” Phil says and Clint doesn’t get what he means for a second before he sees Phil lift his hand, palm out.

Clint’s stepping up to him before he even thinks about it, forcing his eyes to stay open while Phil traces the shape of his chest, down over his stomach, stopping just above Clint’s cock.

“Very good,” Phil says. There’s a just a hint of arousal in his voice but Clint doesn’t point that out; he _likes_ that tell. “Tell me what you’d like.”

Surprised, Clint hesitates. This isn’t how this usually goes. He’s not going to tell Phil what he _really_ wants which is Phil naked, on the bed and letting Clint lick every inch of him – that’s _definitely_ not how this goes – so he struggles to think of something else.

It isn’t hard.

“Can I blow you?” he asks. “Sir?”

Phil’s fingers curl minutely against Clint’s stomach muscles, blunt fingernails scraping his skin. “Going to do it exactly how I say? And stop if I tell you to?”

He’s never asked that before. Clint takes a second to wonder. “Yes, sir.”

Phil nods. “On your knees, then.”

Oh hell yeah, that’s something Clint can do. He folds down, ignoring the bite of the wood floor against his bare knees and presses his face into the tented front of Phil’s pants.

Phil’s hips roll, pressing his cock against Clint’s mouth just once before he gets himself back under control. “Hands behind your back, Barton,” he says and Clint complies even though he really, really wants to touch.

Apart from a couple of helping hands before Phil could stand or piss on his own, he hasn’t really touched Phil for months now. 

“Okay. That’s good.” Phil pulls his own zipper down, opening his pants just enough to slip his hand inside his boxers and pull his cock free. His balls follow, delicate against the sharp teeth of his zipper. Clint watches, rapt.

Phil’s hard, flushed at the tip and Clint licks his lips, half because he likes the way Phil’s breath hitches when he does that but mostly because his mouth is watering.

“Hands to yourself,” Phil reminds him then presses the head of his cock to Clint’s lips. 

Clint keeps his mouth closed because Phil hasn’t said to open them. Even he isn’t sure if he’s being a shit or really getting into this obedience thing.

“Open your mouth,” Phil tells him quietly and pushes just the head onto Clint’s tongue. “Suck.”

 _What else would I do?_ Clint doesn’t ask because he’s too busy doing as he’s told. He loves sucking cock, has never made any secret of that but this is different, with just the head in his mouth and unable to use his hands, he feels cack-handed, awkward. But he’s going to make it work.

He twists his tongue and concentrates on sucking hard, harder than he normally would, so that Phil’s cock doesn’t slip free.

Phil makes a noise between his teeth, and brings one hand up, thumb sliding along Clint’s cheekbone. 

“Stop for a second,” Phil says. 

Clint doesn’t want to but he promised he would so he makes himself rock back on his heels. 

Phil’s cock is shiny with Clint’s spit and Phil lifts a hand, rubbing some of the wetness into his skin which is insanely hot and makes Clint actually choke with want. 

Phil’s hand strokes back into Clint’s hair, fingertips against his scalp, making Clint turn his head into it even though he’s not sure if he’s allowed. 

“Fuck, look at you,” Phil says, so quietly that Clint doesn’t think he was meant to hear. 

“Have you missed me, sir?” Clint asks. He’s pleased that it comes out cheeky, not like he really wants to know.

There’s a pause. “Stop talking, Barton, you’ve got work to do.”

Clint flicks his eyes up to Phil’s face, grins at him. “Sir,” he agrees politely and lowers his head back to Phil’s cock. He takes in maybe an inch more this time before Phil tightens his fingers in Clint’s hair and stops him going down any further.

Phil doesn’t stop him again so Clint really gets to work. The grip Phil has on his hair is helping Clint keep his balance so Clint doesn’t need to waste any concentration on that, just focuses on fucking his face on Phil’s cock, taking him down until his lips hit Phil’s fist and then dragging his mouth back up, adding a little scratch of teeth every now and then.

It’s strange, not being able to feel any other part of Phil’s body, to miss the tightening of his thigh muscles that usually clue Clint in that he’s about to come, so it’s a surprise when Phil’s suddenly dragging Clint back, breathing loud and ragged.

“I’m going to come on your chest,” Phil tells him unsteadily and then he does. It’s ridiculous how hot it is, Phil’s come rolling over his collarbones and dripping off his left nipple.

“Fuck,” Clint says raggedly, coughing to try to clear his dry throat. “That was - ”

“Yes,” Phil interrupts but he sounds off, voice tighter than it should be.

Clint looks up and frowns, stumbling to his feet. Where Phil should be sex-flushed and glowing, he’s rapidly losing colour, beads of clammy sweat on his forehead.

“Sir?” he asks, taking hold of Phil’s upper arms.

“I’m fine,” Phil says, trying to pull away. He’s greyer than he was so Clint doesn’t let go. 

“Phil, for fuck’s sake, sit down,” Clint snaps, trying to shake off the dazed place his brain goes when they fuck like that, “you look like you’re about to pass out.”

“Yeah,” Phil agrees faintly and sits down, dropping his head into his hands.

Clint hovers, toying vaguely with the idea of calling for help but pushing that aside for now; they’re both kind of naked and Phil would never forgive him.

 _Unless he’s dying again_ , the sensible part of Clint’s brain reminds him.

Clint never listens to the sensible part of his brain.

He puts his arm around Phil’s shoulders, trying to give him some kind of anchor in case he’s feeling floaty. He can feel Phil’s back rising and falling with his steady breaths and that’s more reassuring that it should be.

“I’m fine,” Phil says again after a couple of minutes. When he lifts his head, he’s got most of his colour back and an awkward look on his face. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay?” Clint says slowly. “I mean, is it? Are you okay?”

Phil rubs a hand over his chest, still looking embarrassed. “Just low blood pressure. It seems that when my doctors recommended abstinence for another month, they weren’t being overly cautious.”

Clint pulls back, drops his arm from Phil’s shoulders and stares at him. He doesn’t even care that he’s naked, he is righteously angry right now. He wonders if this is how Loki feels all the time.

“Wait, what?” he asks, strangely calm. “They said _what_?” Oh hey, there goes his calm.

Phil’s still rubbing at his scar. Clint helped him get dressed a few times when he was still really weak and just out of the hospital but this is the first time he’s gotten to see how the wound looks now. It’s pink and pretty ugly, a vaguely circular splodge left of centre in his chest. Looking at it makes Clint feel nauseous so he focuses on the paler lines of scars above and below it where the surgeons stapled Phil back together.

He likes those better; those mean there was something to save.

“If it helps - ” Phil starts but Clint can’t listen. It isn’t going to help. 

He starts pulling on his t-shirt, ignoring his pants when they fall out of their nice, neat pile onto the floor. His boxers go on in jerky movements.

“Do you have your pills?” he asks Phil who’s just watching him now. Phil nods. “I’m going to get you a glass of water, don’t move.”

“Clint,” Phil calls but Clint still can’t listen to him.

***

He’s shaking by the time he reaches the kitchen and he has to stop and lean over the sink for a minute until he’s sure he won’t puke.

“Are you okay?” Natasha’s voice asks behind him.

He doesn’t jump because he’s always at least half expecting her to appear out of nowhere wherever he is. If she’d turned up in the bedroom just now, he wouldn’t have been surprised. 

Actually, that would probably have been for the best, then he wouldn’t have been so stupid as to have kinky not-at-all-relaxing sex with a man who had open heart surgery a couple of months ago, who died once in front of Fury and then twice more on the operating table.

“I’ll have to get back to you on that,” Clint tells her, forcing himself to stand up, go to the fridge and take out the water jug like he’d been planning.

When he turns around, Natasha’s holding out two clean glasses like the freaky mind-reader that she is.

“Thanks,” he says, filling the glasses then putting them down on the counter because he’s still fucking shaking. That just doesn’t happen.

Natasha leans against the kitchen table and looks at him steadily. She’s wearing a t-shirt and PJ pants, which makes him wonder what got her out of bed. He’s not dumb enough to think it was him.

“You smell of sex and you came from Coulson’s room,” Natasha says thoughtfully. “So I’m trying to work out if you had a fight or if you told him you’re in love with him and he reacted badly.”

Clint’s head snaps up.

She looks back at him, eyebrows slightly raised.

“You really think I’m that stupid?” he asks eventually, giving in.

Natasha shakes her head. “No. I also don’t think he’d react badly. So what happened?”

Clint could tell her, Phil knows that he doesn’t keep secrets from Natasha, but details still seem like a betrayal. “He nearly died,” Clint says because that’s the problem, isn’t it? That’s why he freaked out. He just started to believe that everything was going back to normal and then Phil had to go and remind him how close he’d come to being gone for good.

Natasha reaches out and pats him quickly on the shoulder. “He did,” she agrees. “Didn’t you already have that panic attack? We hugged, I’m sure.”

Clint’s mouth twitches at that. “We did,” he agrees. “Sorry.”

She shrugs graciously. “It’s okay. I coped.” She tips her head to one side, looking very slightly concerned. “I could probably be persuaded to do it again, if it would help?”

Clint shakes his head even though it’s tempting. “I’d better get back,” he says. “Thanks, Tasha.”

“Sure.” Natasha says slowly. “Anytime?”

He makes himself grin at her and pick up the glasses, downing his and dropping it into the sink to deal with later. She did help, even if she doesn’t think so. Talking to her always makes him feel calmer under his skin, which is what he needs right now.

***

Phil’s standing by the closet when Clint lets himself back in. He’s changed into sweats and a long-sleeved t-shirt and he looks honestly surprised when he sees Clint.

“Pretty sure I told you not to move,” Clint says mildly, handing Phil his glass. “Where are your pills?”

Phil wraps his hand around the glass, fingers brushing Clint’s. They’re steadier than Clint’s are right now, which Clint ignores. “I already dry swallowed a couple,” he says. “Thank you, though.”

“But I told you I was coming back,” Clint argues, feeling thwarted.

Phil shrugs, winces half way through but doesn’t stop. Stubborn. “You were angry. I thought you might need to go sit on the roof for a while first.”

Clint opens his mouth to object to that then closes it. That’s a fair point. Phil knows him too well. “Not when you’re waiting for me,” he finally says, which is kind of lame, but never mind.

“Clint,” Phil says slowly.

Clint shakes his head. “Sit down. Or better yet, lie down. It’s late, you should be sleeping.”

Phil smiles slowly, but he does at least sit. “Are you giving me orders, now?”

“Yes,” Clint tells him firmly because doing what he’s told in bed is a game; this is real life and it’s _Phil_. It’s more important. “Lie down.”

Phil scoots back on the bed, putting his head down on the pillow. It’s pretty clear he’s humouring Clint but that’s okay as long as he’s also doing it.

“All right,” Phil says. “My turn? Lie down with me.”

Clint freezes. “Right,” he scoffs, “you think I’m having more sex with you after the last round nearly killed you?”

“I’m not talking about sex, Clint,” Phil says and then he honest to god holds out his hand. 

Clint, unlike some people, is only a regular kind of human with the regular kind of human desires. He puts his hand in Phil’s, letting Phil tug him over to the bed. “If this is a ruse for sex, I’ll be really pissed,” he says, climbing under the comforter and stretching out next to Phil.

“That sounds fair,” Phil agrees, rolling onto his side and sliding his hand under Clint’s shirt, playing with Clint’s sparse-to-nonexistent chest hair. “I didn’t get to properly enjoy you covered in my come,” he adds, sounding on the edge of petulant.

Clint snorts. “That wasn’t my fault, man,” he says but he covers Phil’s hand with his, the thin material of his t-shirt between them somehow making it feel more intimate, not less. “Also I’m still really mad at you.”

Phil’s other arm curls around Clint’s back, pulling him closer. This is not how their post-sex debriefs usually work. Sometimes there’s beer, but usually there’s just straightening of clothes and getting back on with their days.

“I honestly didn’t think that was going to happen,” Phil tells him. “Fury has traumatised the doctors into ordering me not to do anything. I’ve been testing the boundaries for weeks and that was the first ill-effect.”

Clint smacks him lightly on the chest, far, _far_ away from the side that got stabbed. “Dude, your doctor tells you not to do something, you don’t do it.”

Phil blinks at him slowly then laughs, choking on it. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I think you just killed me with your hypocrisy.”

Clint rolls his eyes even though hearing Phil say _killed me_ makes him want to cover Phil’s mouth and ask him to pick a different word, any other word. “The worst I’ve ever done is check myself out of medical with a couple of broken bones. Which you’re never going to be able to complain about again, by the way.”

“You checked yourself out of medical with two broken _legs_ ,” Phil corrects. His hand slides down Clint’s side and curls around his hip. “I am sorry, though. If I scared you.”

Clint snorts. “Right. Invading aliens don’t scare me but you going a bit pale does?”

Phil just looks over at him. “Of course,” he agrees lightly, “my mistake.”

Up until now, Clint has been kind of passive in this whole almost-a-cuddle thing they’ve got going. He decides to mix it up a bit now by sliding his arm under Phil and closing the last of the gap between them.

Phil puts his head on Clint’s chest. Another thing Clint wasn’t expecting. Maybe he should just stop pretending like he knows what’s happening here.

“You didn’t get off,” Phil says, like he’s just realising it.

“Yeah.” Clint shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”

Phil’s quiet for a minute. “So if I told you to jerk yourself off while I watch?” It’s not an order, it’s definitely a question.

“That’s a damn fine image, that really is,” Clint says truthfully, “but I’d say raincheck.” 

He likes being told what to do sometimes because he likes not having to plan or be responsible and, if it all goes to shit, he likes to pretend that it can’t have been his fault. Right now, though, he feels like he needs to be hyperaware in case Phil does something else potentially fatal to himself. 

Phil pushes himself up on one elbow, squinting down at Clint. “Are you okay?”

It’s a serious question. Clint doesn’t want to answer it seriously. “I’m always okay, sir,” he promises, then makes himself add, “except for when people I care about get hurt on my watch.”

There. That was okay. That wasn’t anything Phil didn’t already know. Except Phil is looking at Clint like he just spontaneously plucked a limited edition Captain America card out from behind Phil’s ear or something.

“If I tell you to jerk off you’ll say no?” Phil recaps.

Clint nods. “Yeah. Don’t ask me why, I think I must be growing a conscience or something.”

“What if I tell you to kiss me?” Phil finishes.

They’ve never done that. Clint swallows hard.

“Never mind,” Phil says quickly, “that was a stupid idea. I’ll blame the heart medication.”

“No,” Clint says quickly. “No, that’s.” He gives up on talking, reaches up with his free hand and touches Phil’s mouth. “Tell me to kiss you?”

Phil’s tongue flicks out, skimming the pads of Clint’s fingertips. “Barton,” he starts but Clint suddenly can’t wait for him to finish.

He rolls them – gently, totally gently – over so that Phil’s on his back, no pressure at all on his chest and hovers over him.

Phil’s eyes dip to Clint’s mouth and that’s all Clint needs. He kisses Phil slowly, carefully, he’s had Phil’s cock in his mouth and his tongue in Phil’s ass but this is new and it feels like it should be savoured.

Apparently Phil agrees because his hands find their way to Clint’s shoulders, the sides of his neck and he doesn’t tell him to hurry up, just kisses back at the same slow, exploratory pace.

Phil’s eyes are glassy when they break for air and he’s definitely flushed now. 

“I’m still not having sex with you,” Clint warns him, “not until you produce a written note signed by two doctors and Fury himself to say it’s okay.”

“Fury?” Phil asks, arching an eyebrow. “Really?”

Clint thinks that through. “Okay, no, let’s not do that. I’m serious about the doctors though.”

“Clint,” Phil says patiently. “Stop talking. Kiss me again.”

“Yeah, okay,” Clint agrees, and does.

/End.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(Podfic) Like Fine Print, Hard To Read](https://archiveofourown.org/works/502651) by [raiining](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining)




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